This year I will turn 59 years old. Today, and the past few weeks I have felt like a child. Why? Because the closet has been opened, the can of worms have been spilt, and I want to shove it all back and close the door! Some people close to me have discouraged me from sharing my story.
The following are some of the comments I have heard, which makes this all the more confusing and difficult. I will share these comments with you so others can understand my journey in coming forward with my story.
Comments I found confusing:
• “And this will help, Tam?”
• “How much good does it to denigrate a dead man?”
• “Maybe you should get counseling, heal, until you are healthy you can’t help anyone else”
• “Just pray to God” (rather than counseling or talking)
And another person commented regarding workers letter to the field:
• “We don’t need to dwell on it”
I believe the right step is to share my story and to be transparent. Here are some comments that helped give me clarity:
• “This is her story, what is coming is uncomfortable, but not nearly as uncomfortable as how it feels inside to live with the sexual abuse of a parent.”
• “I think you should absolutely keep talking. We got into this predicament because of people keeping secrets!!”
• “Secrets kill”
• “Take good care of yourself and give yourself some grace”
• “Sharing your story will be healing. Reporting the crime will be healing, it will be a burden off your shoulders, and it will allow others to come forward. This is a time to heal. Share your story when you are ready, it doesn’t matter how others feel about your story. This is not their story to bare. You are the one who paid the price.”
• “When victims share their story on their time, they are taking their power back.”
• “Sharing your story is not being vindictive. It’s being honest and you become the gatekeeper. Think of Mordecai and how he called out the enemy. Esther told the King. They weren’t vindictive, they were protecting others and helping in their healing.”
• “It is time to rip off the band-Aid.”
My story
When I was a month from turning six years old, I was orphaned. I became the first child of a professing couple soon after my sixth birthday. Over the next few years: we moved from Greeley, Colorado to Kent/Renton, Washington area. My parents had two birth daughters and adopted another son. When I was entering the 6th grade we moved to Central Washington, Ellensburg, Washington. My father was a loved elder of one of two meetings. He was a valued professor at Central University and an active citizen of the community. Most who knew him, loved him.
While I was in middle school my father began touching and rubbing my knees under the dining table while the whole family sat together for meals. I did not like it one bit and was very uncomfortable. Until my adoption I did not have a father figure, and because he was my father (power imbalance), I felt helpless to say stop.
Over the next couple of years, he continued this regularly, he would also take me out to the barn and use sexual curse words and ask me if I knew them as well as sexual jokes. He would come into my room and ask me to find the love story sections in the book I was reading. Is this not grooming a child? I found this to be unsettling but didn’t know how to speak up and ask for help.
There were times when he came into my room in his underwear and t-shirt to talk to me and then would say he was cold and would crawl into bed with me. I had a single bed, and I recall pushing myself up against the wall so he wouldn’t touch me. One time, my father did crawl up on top of me. Writing this has brought back some memories I have pushed far away from my conscious thinking.
When I turned 16, the golden year to begin dating, my father took it upon himself to take me on a date to show me how it should go. He wanted me to sit by him in the truck, I refused. He wanted me to hold his hand at the restaurant table. I refused. When we were back home, he wanted to kiss me on the lips! I refused and got out of the truck.
Soon after I began dating the young man who became my husband. I asked him if my dad’s behavior was normal. He was unaware of these types of things, and he thought I should tell my mom.
Towards the end of my junior year of high school, I was sitting at my mom’s sewing table working. My father came from behind, slid his hands down into my dress top and grasped my breasts! I jumped up and yelled at him to get away! He said, “I thought you were mom”.
I told my mom, and she said she would talk to him. I asked a day or two later if she had spoken to him and she said she had. I asked what happened? She said that if he ever did that to any of us children again, she would take us all and leave. I felt protected and relieved the molestation would stop. It did stop.
However, my father then began to avoid me every time we came into the same room. He would go out another door or going as far away from me as he could. Mom finally had enough and shut us in a room to “talk it out.” We basically yelled at each other; he told me it was my fault because I was rubbing my breasts against him—which I never did!
From that day on it wasn’t spoken of again…except to address two situations later in life. One time was after several years of dating my boyfriend (now husband). My father asked me if the reason we weren’t getting married was because of what had happened between us. I told him no.
The second time it happened was after my husband and I had adopted our children. It soon became clear we were not allowing our children to visit my parents unattended at any time. My mom asked if the reason was because of what had happened between dad and myself. When I told her that was the case, she then responded that “The grandchildren were still several years younger than you were when dad did anything to you, so we still have time.”
Needless to say, it was clear my mother didn’t understand the full impact of child sexual abuse. My husband and I kept a vigilant watch over our children. The secret was created and kept for many years.
Jumping back to the pre-adoption days, my husband and I were attending pre-adoption classes and there was a segment where we were being taught what sexual abuse looks like in several forms. That was the day I actually realized, “That was me! I had been sexually abused!” Wow, what a lot to process!
Eventually I did share with a few of my closest friends and my sisters. As my children began wondering why they couldn’t go stay with their grandparents, we explained to them why it was not a safe place to be without my husband and myself.
I have had counseling over the years for many different reasons, marital, adoption issues, etc. With the new transparency and other courageous people who have shared their story, I am understanding that I have been functioning all these years without really understanding and resolving the child sexual abuse of my father, and how it has affected me. I have been successful at keeping it all buried deep down.
Now I do not want to live with this ugly, sickening secret that was done to me, that I was not responsible for. I have faithfully carried this secret to save face of those who were close to my father. I do not have to do that, in fact I must not continue carrying that secret…as one said to me, “Secrets kill!” I want to live a healthy life.
This secret eats at my soul. I haven’t written about all the ways in which this has affected me and my loved ones. I realize that this may be hard for many to read, especially those who knew my father. He was a great man to many, but not to me. In the secret place, far from prying eyes, my father showed me a side I wish I never saw.
I wanted to love and respect my father and honor my family name. After all, he helped rescue me soon after my 6th birthday. I wanted to respect my mother and keep this story a secret, which I did for many decades. I am grateful my mother put a stop to the abuse. I am grateful for my siblings and friends who have listened to me and stood by me in their own way. I am grateful for my husband and children who have loved me no matter what.
So, it is with great pain that I share my story. And share I must. Why? Because this closet of mine needs to be cleaned and these worms need to be thrown away. I will own my story and heal on a deeper level. May God help us all during these difficult times.
Tammarie (Black) Anderson
Sherwood, Oregon
May/June of 2023